


Victory Lullaby

by FourLeaves413



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Blind Character, F/M, Gen, Music, Nux Lives, Platonic Relationships, Selectively Mute Coma Doof Warrior, Sharing a Bed, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29333715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourLeaves413/pseuds/FourLeaves413
Summary: With Furiosa in charge of the Citadel, many celebrate, after all, it wouldn't be a true transfer of power without high spirits. Naturally, The Doof is called upon to provide music for the celebrations. He didn't expect to be called upon by the wives.
Relationships: Capable/Nux (Mad Max), Furiosa/Max Rockatansky, The Coma-Doof Warrior & The Wives
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Victory Lullaby

With nothing in his hands, the Doof looked like death, eyeless and thin. He was in the process of dying, same as all the other half-life war boys, (same as everyone, he would correct you, given the chance) but only the Doof looked like he was already mostly finished. He spent his days alone, for it was difficult making friends with a blind, nearly mute feral. Even without his war paint, he was pale and sickly. 

Unless he had something in his hands. 

With something as simple as a stick, he would tap out complex rhythms against whatever surfaces he could find, including his own (and others') body. He had more string instruments than he had toes: less than ten but more than six. They were as perfectly inert and unremarkable as he himself, until they touched. His fingers were conduits, creating a positive feedback loop that had given the Doof his fame. Armed with simple vibration of air, he was alive, twice as alive as any of his brethren. 

In the past, he had often been commissioned by the Immortan to play. Sometimes he'd entertained Joe himself and the Doof had struck heavy riffs, shredding steel strings and his fingers and smiling all the wider for it. 

Sometimes he'd performed for the milk mothers. They liked to sing, most of them. Several had even taught him jaunty tunes they could all sing along with, and he found their taste in music refreshing. 

Every so often, he'd be summoned to play for the wives. When they were good, Joe said. The Doof didn't understand that: the wives were always good, always shiny and chrome and wonderful, but he knew he'd be flayed if he ever said so.

He always enjoyed playing for the wives. They were curious as pups and many times smarter. But, he was never allowed to touch them. When he'd accidentally brushed up against one on his way out- just a whisper of pressure, the tips of soft hair- he'd been beaten senseless. The sentry guards had dragged him out of the Biodome afterwards and he'd woken in The Organic's, positively delirious. 

Despite not being able to touch them, he had managed to teach them to play several rudimentary tunes, be it on the beautiful piano in their chamber or on one of his own guitars. The wives usually preferred slow songs, sad songs. It was tiring, to join them in their grief and despair and channel it in his fingers, in his posture. They would cry like he was pulling their fingernails off, and then _thank_ him for it, and in a way, The Doof found he could understand. The world diligently sniffed out vulnerability and soft emotion and tore apart any found guilty of association. Any outlet, any _solace_ -this time in the form of music- was rare and appropriately sought after. 

Now that Furiosa was in charge, his fingers had never been so raw. In the celebration, there was such great demand that if he was not playing, he was sleeping, if only to steal some time away from other voices. 

Then, one night after supper, the wives summoned him. Were they still wives if the Immortan was dead? Were they Furiosa's wives now? These were the meaningless questions that ran circles in his mind as he made the familiar trek up to their chamber. 

The vault door had always had guards posted outside whenever he would play, just to make sure there was no "funny business" they'd say. But the Doof could hear, clicking his tongue, that the vault door was open. He carefully made his way inside and almost immediately stubbed his toe on a piece of furniture that was not there previously. He didn't like this. Alone in a sea of unfamiliarity. 

"Hey, warboy!" 

The Doof released a breath, turning toward the voice from outside the vault. That was a wife, she would help him. 

He'd never been allowed to know their names, but that didn't stop him from identifying them. This one was the one who knew things. She was rougher than the others. She knew the wasteland. She was a quick learner when she wanted to be, but had little patience when she wasn't interested. She liked the piano.

She was closer when she spoke again: "I guess you didn't get the memo. Follow me." 

The Doof prepared to crane his ears to catch lithe footfalls. The hand that grabbed his was completely and utterly unexpected. He yanked his hand away as if burned. No one ever touched him, he was deformed and strange- and he wasn't allowed to touch The Wives. He hunched his shoulders and bowed his head, expecting retribution. 

Instead there was silence. 

And then- "It's alright. The rules are different now. No one is going to hurt you up here." 

She _sounded_ genuine. And he didn't hear any angry footfalls from guards, no whistling of fists about to strike. The Doof wasn't sure if he liked that or not. He didn't like change. 

The wife clicked her tongue and shuffled a bit. "May I take your hand to lead you to our room?" She asked. No uncertain terms. Maybe a bit of impatience, but she wouldn't have asked if she didn't care. He nodded and tentatively held out his hand. 

The wife laid her fingers on top of his, base to tip. The Doof was very confused until she curled her fingers and he did the same, and then they were hooked together, two interlocking ledges. It was unfamiliar and sudden, but not necessarily uncomfortable, and he nodded with something of a vague smile. 

The wife began leading him, and he did his best to memorize the route. The citadel was a maze of tunnels and passages, but the wife knew where she was going. It was difficult to keep track of the route with so many distractions. Fellow warboys whistled and jeered, then would suddenly get quiet. The Doof could only imagine what inappropriate gesture the wife had made to shut them up. They passed through several rooms full of echoing voices and laughter, and that was always disorienting. Her nails occasionally dug into his fingers, and he loosened his grip as not to do the same to her- he had fairly long nails on his strumming hand, after all. 

They entered a quiet series of halls. There was water somewhere, he could smell it, feel the humidity, the cooler temperature. The air was thick with it. "We moved up here to be closer to the green," the wife said unprompted, "The vault has too many bad memories." 

That was understandable, he supposed. Bad memories were sticky things, clinging to people and places and things. He wondered what Furiosa thought of her wives running about willy-nilly... If they were all her wives now. Hmm... He'd listen to the lancers gossip, then the drivers, then the other blackthumbs, and he'd know the truth when they all scoffed disappointedly at their hypotheses not being correct.

A giggling voice echoed from up ahead. The Wife-Who-Knew-Things let go of his hand and scuffed her feet along the floor a bit more as she walked. Considerate of her. The Doof followed. 

The tunnel opened up to a room of medium size. Big enough to echo lightly, small enough to hear everything in it. There were multiple people in here, more than just the wives, and he immediately felt the first twitches of apprehension prick along his shoulders. A familiar feeling that was catalogued and stifled. He was a professional, but he wasn't sure if he was in any danger or not. At least with Immortan Joe, The Doof knew where he stood. With Furiosa in charge... The wife had told him that no one would hurt him, but one does not survive by believing everything they're told. 

A familiar voice- The mouthiest of the wives, spoke up. "It's about time, where were you?" 

"The vault." The-Wife-Who-Knew-Things said bluntly. 

"Oh." 

The Doof sometimes had difficulty identifying the emotions of others, but even he knew that the following pause was heavy and awkward. The-Wife-Who-Knew-Things had not been exaggerating when she said the vault had bad memories. 

"Won' try t'kill me this time?" A gruff voice spoke up. Unfamiliar, but Doof hadn't tried to kill many people, and the voice was with the wives, so it had to be the feral. There were no hard feelings, except for his lovingly-crafted flamethrower, which could not be salvaged from the wreck of the war rig. The Doof was fairly easy like that- most warboys were. Two blokes at each other's throats one day, sitting down to help paint each other the next; though no one ever wanted to help with the Doof's paint. It was always a chore, a gruesome responsibility to shove onto the greener warboys as a hazing, a challenge; a warning. Some days, The Doof would go down to the sands; ask The Wretched to help him. They never laughed, either for fear or awe or solemn understanding, and The Doof appreciated any combination of the three. They were always the gentlest, smearing cool wetness over the skin of his empty eye sockets, over the rest of his scarred body. A few of them, he'd even introduced to Mother. They didn't like her very much, but no one liked Mother very much except him-

"No, he's just going to play for us, right?" 

The-Wife-Who-Knew-Things nudged him slightly. The shock of touch pulled him from his thoughts like teeth pulled stubborn meat from bone. Yes. Yes, he was going to play. The weight of the guitar on his back was grounding, and that was what he focused on as the wife guided him to a chair. He waited with the guitar in his hands, as he always did, waiting for a request. The wives knew the drill. 

"Play us the milk mothers' song," The mouthy wife said. The Doof wasn't sure how she'd heard of the milk mothers' song, but he started it up nonetheless. His voice wouldn't come in the presence of the Feral or even Furiosa for that matter, so the song was a bit lacking to his ears, but he strummed and plucked and even got some rhythmic claps from _someone._ It was strange, he thought, how the first song they wanted was upbeat, for once. Maybe that was what happened after the death of someone you hate- you don't want to listen to slow, sad songs. And why would you? There was less to be sad about, at least to them. And so he played every bit as enthusiastically as he could, and even found himself smiling by the end. 

A smattering of clapping was a meager reward, but it was better than the tears he was used to after a sad song. There was some conversation between them, and the Doof busied himself with pretending to check his tuning- it was _always_ perfect- and plucked some simple tunes. This, he was familiar with. It was his most important job, after all, to set the mood, to provide sound fitting the occasion. Most of the time, the occasion was flying through the desert with death and glory in mind. 

But not this time. 

This time, the kindest, soft-spoken wife talked and laughed with someone the Doof could immediately identify as a warboy. Hard to tell which one, but the lilt of the voice was familiar. Tired though, must be wounded or near the end of his half-life- not that it was the Doof's business.

Furiosa was talking at who the Doof assumed to be the Feral, because there was little response to anything she said, and she didn't seem perturbed. 

The three other wives, the knowledgeable one, the mouthy one, and the young, quiet one, were poking fun at the others in the good-natured way companions did. 

It was peaceful, Doof thought. Peaceful, if only for a brief time. Worth enjoying. 

"Do you know any waltzes?" The kind wife suddenly asked him. 

_Did he know any waltzes?_

Such a silly question. 

His response was a grin he was certain looked ghastly, but it was long past the time where they gasped at him. His fingers plucked in 3/4 time, and tried to imagine how one could dance to it. He knew it was a dancing tune, but dancing to slow songs seemed awful pointless. Even the Doof understood the bone-deep, uncontrollable energy that music could bring. It entered through the ears, through the _chest_ when loud enough, and would only exit through action. A slow song like a waltz couldn't do that, could it? 

"Do you know how to dance?" The kind wife asked her warboy. 

"O' course!" He said, then turned sheepish. "But not to this..." 

There was a smile in her voice. "C'mere, let me show you." 

Two sets of feet scuffed their way to the right, into what the Doof could only expect to be an open area. He slowed down without being told to, and delighted in the sound of the warboy's gangly struggles. Perhaps the Wives had yet to figure out all warboys had two left feet. That wasn't to say that they couldn't dance, however. After several long minutes, it seemed the warboy was getting it, moving in time and stepping on less feet. 

Two sets of feet, moving together, close, so in sync they could be one... Maybe the need to dance to slow songs came from somewhere else. Yes, he thought, as the warboy apologized yet again and the Wife just laughed, a slow dance for two didn't need music at all, just rhythm and connection. The Doof felt a twinge of sadness, and the waltz grew mournful. 

When the two finally got tired or gave up, his playing came to an ending soft and sweet. The last chord wailed on, and the Doof echoed it, leaning back, smile fading, shoulders drooping, like a final breath. 

His audience didn't seem to mind. As he sat limply in the chair like a corpse, they talked amongst themselves. All except one. 

The shy, youngest one. She was quiet even as the other wives laughed. Perhaps she wanted another song. Any such request would be welcomed bittersweetly. 

Music making was exhausting in the way that did not leave him sore after waking up. He was a true musician, a performer, an _artist,_ and he could call himself as such purely because he felt what he played. The rifts of war he played made his blood sing with excitement. The milk mothers' song always left him feeling fuller and more whole than before. There was no way to play a slow, sad song without becoming melancholy. As such, the Doof found that emotions were exhausting, and therefore, so was performing. 

So he let his tingling fingers rest, and thus became the limp, empty visage of death once more. His fingertips were hard with calluses, permanently stained black from handling the aging steel strings, black as rot, so he'd heard. It had been said as an insult, as though he was filled with so much death that it overflowed from his fingertips. But the Doof liked it. Lancers and drivers alike could apply as much warpaint as they wanted. He earned his like the blackthumbs did, through labor and effort. There was nothing disgraceful in that. 

Once or twice more, he was requested to play, once by the warboy, who wanted to hear him rip out a few rifts fitting survival, the dodging of death. Easy enough. Then a short while later, Furiosa herself asked him if he knew an old, old folk song. Danny Boy. That, he knew, was an end-of-the-night song. Without any fanfare, he played. He played it simply, as it was meant to be, gentle as he could get it. There was silence as he played this time, until he began the second verse. 

The _Imperator_ began to _sing._

She wasn't very good, the Doof thought to himself, she was barely in key, and croaked out the words as if choked... But that didn't matter. The _emotion_ was palpable, even to him. How rare, for her to show such emotion. Rarer still that anyone be privy to it, he was sure. His face twisted in sympathy. This must cost her greatly, to ask, to sing; to allow the Wives and the Feral and _him_ of all people to witness her. And so, he played all the more sweetly, until Imperator Furiosa had no more words, and he, no more of himself to give. There was no applause this time, as his last chord lingered and died. 

One of the wives- the Doof couldn't tell which one- inhaled and opened her mouth to say something, but- 

"It's late." Imperator Furiosa's voice was clipped, leaving no room for anything but compliance. "Get some rest." 

She didn't stick around to make sure they followed through. Her heavy footsteps faded, followed closely by the Feral, who was decent enough to mutter, "g'night," before taking off. 

Then he was alone with the Wives. 

One approached him, still worn out and limp in his chair. She wore boots. The knowledgeable one? Yes- 

"I'll take you back down to the vault, and you can-" 

"Wait-" 

Both the Doof and the Wife turned their heads. The youngest wife stammered. 

"Well... I was hoping, maybe, um... To help, me sleep?" She eventually stuttered, "If-if-if you're not too tired..." Oh, she really was just a wee one, he thought, how cute. 

He gave her a full grin. Surely terrifying, he'd been told before, with his missing eyes and misbehaving teeth and thin, scabbed lips. Terrifying, but genuine. And the youngest Wife did not scream or even gasp, didn't seem to even breathe until the Doof nodded his head and let his grin become a smaller, tamer smile. Who was he to refuse her?

"Cheedo, are you _sure-_ " Ah, that was her name- 

"Yes, I'm sure. He's not going to do anything, are you, warboy?" 

"Wot'?" The kind Wife's warboy spoke up around a mouthful of something. 

"Ugh, no not you, Nux, _him!_ " The youngest Wife said, probably gesturing. 

"Oh, m'sorry," The Wife's warboy named Nux said, "His name's Coma." 

Only when he wasn't pl- "Alright, well, _Coma's_ not going to do anything, right?" 

This question was aimed at him, and he nodded again, then frantically shook his head. No, he would not do anything but what was requested of him. Nothing to jeopardize his opportunities to play for them in the future.

The knowledgeable Wife growled under her breath, but didn't say anything more, seemingly convinced. Her footsteps faded, and another's approached. 

"If you'd like to play some more, I'd love to hear it in my room," the youngest W- Cheedo, said. 

Coma just nodded pleasantly, stood up, and followed the barefoot, pitter-patter of footsteps. She reminded him of the warpups, too afraid to touch him, but brave enough to listen. There was nothing scary enough to keep the living from listening. 

"Careful, there's a little ledge..." She said quietly, and he was careful. The new room was small, no room for good acoustics, not that she cared, he thought. He stood in the middle of the room until she patted something soft, offering him a place to sit. A bed, too soft for him to possibly sleep on, he didn't say. His voice still cowered somewhere in his throat from the unfamiliar situation: being summoned at night, playing an intimate little set for strangers including Imperator Furiosa and the Feral, being requested personally to accompany sleep- right, he was supposed to be doing that. 

His fingers plucked out a series of chords, light and fluttering, like her little bare feet on the stone floor. Of all the wives, she was the most naive, though perhaps not anymore, not after knowing the thrill of the Fury Road. She could still be innocent, he thought. Yes, that word would be hers, in the same way that Splendid had belonged to the fallen wife. He had caught the title on his way out one day, and had learned that it'd been a fitting name. A shame she'd been lost, truly. She'd had a good ear, a pleasant voice. 

Cheedo shifted- getting comfortable, he assumed- and he paid her no mind, just plucked and slid and pulled off notes in a slow, simple lullaby, too long to be repetitive and short enough to be familiar. He liked this... He'd have to make a note of it, file it away with the other songs the wives liked. They liked pretty things, and he wondered if that was a wife thing or a woman thing. Didn't make a lick of sense that they seemed to like him plenty- he knew he wasn't pretty. 

"Coma?" Her voice was barely a surprise for how soft and light it was. The way she said his name sounded like how the wind felt. He inclined his head toward her just slightly, not missing a beat. "Can I... Sleep close to you?" 

His tempo slowed slightly. The question seemed like a silly one. He was sitting on her bed, he certainly _hoped_ she would be sleeping, and it would be close to him whether they liked it or not. She took his stillness as acquiescence, and her back pressed tentatively against his thigh. He moved to accommodate and she murmured, "If you touch me, I'll gut you." 

This, for whatever reason, startled his voice forward with a cough of laughter. "You couldn't," he said, his voice little more than a gravelly, disused whisper.

This was the wrong thing to say. 

Her presence lifted, disappeared. It had been an accidental threat, what he'd said- that she would not be able to overpower him if he wanted to touch her. But she would certainly scream, no doubt sending the other wives to her defense, and he was certain he would _wish_ there were still bodyguards at the door, if only to drag his carcass from the territory of banshees, all shrill voices and sharp nails and speed too quiet to hear-

His hands had increased their tempo, lowered their pitch, moving closer to the familiar metal dirge, but a sour slipped note brought him back to himself. 

"Sorry..." His hands stilled in his sincerity. "Won't touch you," he said, feeling his voice creep back to the place behind his throat. "Promise," he croaked before it was gone.

The silence that followed felt like a test of some sort. She could do any combination of things to get him to stop: to stop playing, to stop being in the room, to stop him from ever playing for them again...

A quiet shift, but Coma resolutely stayed still, as nonthreatening as he could be. Then Cheedo moved again and he felt something sharp pressed sternly against his abdomen, his blood ran cold with a sudden surge of adrenaline.

...to stop him from breathing.

"I _could_ " she whispered, and he believed her, his mouth dry. Coma nodded shakily and the sharpness eased away slow enough to leave the threat in its place. He had underestimated her. No, naive was certainly not her word, and this surely _was_ the territory of banshees, of sirens, with sweet voices and hidden knives. 

But he had no intention of touching her, so Coma tried to push the thought and threat from his mind. 

Then, just like that, Cheedo nestled with her back against his leg, settling in. Warm- he could feel through two layers of fabric. She took a deep breath and Coma felt the tension leak out of her body in the following sigh. This, he could understand. There was a certain creature comfort that came with sleeping with a warmth that was not your own. Every once in a while, Coma himself couldn't help but seek out such company, be it in the wretched, the rare compassionate warboy, or the all-too-plentiful half-corpses in Organic's. This wasn't much different. There was an innocence to the contact, an understanding; a reconciliation. They'd been on opposite sides of the battle, but only out of necessity. There was no animosity, just the animal wariness came with sharing heat with someone who could kill you if they really wanted to. It was a fragile pact of trust, to be vulnerable together in order to survive a world that was cruel to the lonely. The void of strong emotion was loathe to be filled with any emotion at all. It was simply stillness, save for the slide of his fingers on the strings and the rise and fall of their breath. 

He couldn't have estimated how long she was awake to listen, much less how long he played. It could have been minutes, or perhaps hours until his fingers slowed to a stop and his head lolled. 

It would be a macabre sight at first, to anyone who dared look. The very picture of life: scarred but fierce and resilient; dormant, but always to rise again, and next to her, the visage of death, eyeless and thin, as limp and inert as a puppet with cut strings. But, he had a guitar in his lap, and one hand had fallen, palm up, touching life and death.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'm always looking for constructive criticism. Kudos and comments sustain me, so let me know if you want to see more from me! <3


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